


Choirboy

by sloppy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coming of Age, Gen, Minor Original Character(s), Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 00:24:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6682027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sloppy/pseuds/sloppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Albus joins the school choir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choirboy

**Author's Note:**

> I went to the WWOHP.

“You didn’t show up to tryouts.”

Albus took a languid swig of pumpkin juice before he laid the mug down, slowly as possible, and looked up to meet James’ steely gaze. His older brother, in his burgundy-gold Quidditch uniform caked in mud, stood dripping wet from the rain.

“No,” Albus said calmly. “I didn’t.”

“But you _promised_ ,” James whined, dumping his sloppy self onto the bench and quickly tearing himself a turkey leg. Beside them, Rose wrinkled her nose but did not say a thing, other than flick away a bit of grassy sludge that fell near her plate. “You said you’d try for seeker. We agreed you would your third year ‘cause you didn’t wanna last year and I don’t think my maths is wrong because I’m pretty sure it’s your third year since you can go to Hogsmeade now and—Rosie, could you pass the potatoes, I’m starving, thanks—Al, how _could_ you?”

He replied, “It’s not like I didn’t want to go, I just… something came up, that’s all.”

“What could have been more important than Quidditch tryouts?”

Rose smiled at her green peas. “ _Choir_ tryouts.”

“Rose!” cried Albus in betrayal. Then he waited for the fallout.

James almost let a piece of turkey meat hang from his lips. “Wait, _what?_ _Choir?_ You don’t mean Flitwick’s Foggy Froggies, do you?” 

“Don’t call them that! It’s only called the Frog Choir because they originally used toads to fill in for the baritones and basses that they didn’t have in its first formation in the 1930s. It’s for tradition. They don’t even _need_ toads half the time!” defended Albus.

“Can you even sing?” James countered, stabbing his fork in the air. Rose dodged a directionless swing and hit his shoulder. 

The question made Albus clam up and return his attention to his dinner. “That’s none of your business.”

“I think it’s my business when my little brother ditches a promised pursuit for some secret passion of yours I’ve never even heard of until now!”

“Promised pursuit?” Albus scoffed. “You know I’ve never made any promises. Just because I’m a little good at hand-eye-coordination to catch some floating ball—”

“Brilliant, you mean,” corrected Rose under her breath, right before James could.

“James, we aren’t even in the same house! If I’m as good as you think I am, why would you want me on an opposing team?”

“It’s the principle of the matter!”

“Since when do you care about principles? It’s your fifth year and you should be worrying about your O.W.L.s, not about me trying out for _Quidditch_ —”

There was a bang. “ _You could have told me!_ ”

James slammed the Gryffindor table with such ferocity, Rose had to levitate the surrounding dishes to save the food from impact. “D’you know how long I waited out there in the rain? My house’s practice ended _hours_ ago and I stayed in the pitch just to watch _you_ play. I waited until Slytherin took the field and you know how much Zabini annoys me but I stayed there for _you_. Three hours, mate. I waited _three hours_ for a brother who would never show.”

“I didn’t ask you to come,” muttered Albus. He couldn’t meet his gaze.

“You’re not supposed to have to.” James must have suddenly lost his appetite and rose at once, readying to storm away. He added, quieter, “I’m your brother. You could have just told me.”

Once James had gone and Albus was left to his own devices (and Rose’s disapproving frown), he unrolled a parchment hand-delivered to him by a shaky first year before dinner which first sentence read in flashing silver ink: _Dear Mr. Potter, Congratulations! Welcome to Hogwarts’ Official Frog Choir!_

 

* * *

 

Lincoln Creevey was a Slytherin sixth year prefect with dirty blond wispy hair and an affinity for wearing black knitted turtlenecks beneath his uniform. Rumored to be president of the mysterious Silver Spear dueling club said to only accept duelers that wielded wands made from aspen wood, Creevey was a skilled student in practically every subject and was Keeper for the Slytherin Quidditch team until he took a leave of absence last year in preparation for his O.W.L.s.

But in the end, there was only one single thing about him Albus truly adored him for—he was, without a doubt, the Frog Choir’s most talented tenor.

“What’s that he’s practicing now?” asked Albus, enraptured as Creevey begun a melody so fitting for ears. 

A Hufflepuff seventh year he’d just met laughed at his enthusiasm and answered, “It’s a just warmup piece. You’re the treble we picked up last week, right? The boy soprano?”

At once, Albus became shy at the mention of his singing. He nodded, bangs falling over his eyes.

Practice was held in a large classroom high up in the Astronomy tower, just a floor or two below the surface observatory. The music room was rattled with dust mites and centuries-old concrete, but it served its purpose well and was wide enough to contain fifteen Hogwarts students and their vocal exercises. Albus nearly got lost on his way up until he politely coerced directions from a lady in a painting dressed in funeral clothes.

“Oh, the days pre-puberty,” reminisced the upperclassman. “Not that it mattered much—I’m a girl, you know. I just can’t imagine being a boy and having that so _changed_ for you. In the future. Soon, maybe.”

“Gee, thanks,” muttered Albus, and she giggled some more.

“What’s your name?” she asked, after introducing herself.

“Albus,” he replied. “Potter.”

She swished her wand and spit a quick spell that pulled up her hair into a tight bun. “Hmm. Like Harry Potter in the History of Magic textbooks?”

Hesitantly, he admitted, “I’m his son.”

“Nice. Both my parents are accountants.” Hopping off the long tables they were perched on, she announced in front of the other members flipping through songbooks or doing their homework: “Time to group up! Listen to your section leaders and let’s clean those rackety harmonies! Flitwick put me in charge for the hour he had to go placate the springy bass toads, so don’t give me that look, Davies. I _am_ his favorite, anyway. Creevey, I know you’re focusing on your solo, but could you sub in for Vane today? He popped a couple Fainting Fancies to get out of his Divination quiz but the poor thing must’ve taken one more than he should ‘cause you couldn’t peel him off the bed if you tried.”

“That’s fine,” agreed Creevey amiably. Albus inhaled. Vane was, incidentally, _his_ section leader. 

“Oh, everyone, by the way, this is Al! You’ll hear him soon. Like a baby siren, Flitwick said.” She patted his back hard and almost sent him tumbling. “You’ll take this one, Creevey.”

Albus wasn’t sure what to feel at being likened to a deadly infantile sea creature, but he forgot about all that when Creevey came over to shake his hand. His long sleeve peeked beneath his shirt cuffs.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he said with a small smile, and Albus could have died. “Are you ready?”

He nodded vigorously, beaming. “Yeah—I mean, yes! Always.”

 

* * *

The next morning at breakfast, mail dropped right into Albus’s syrupy pancakes.

“Ruddy owl,” he grumbled, peeling it off without reverence.

“Whoever thought owls and food go together clearly never cared for the condition of their meals,” commented Scorpius as he plucked a stray cereal from his hair that flew the moment an owl dropped the day’s newspaper into his bowl. Spotting the Gryffindor’s table, he saw that a package had landed on a jar of milk and splattered everyone within radius, including a few recognizable redheads. “Good thing you didn’t sit there this time around. You in a fight with Rose or something?”

Albus spotted Creevey down their row whisper a _Protego_ charm over his waffle as more owls flew overhead. “Not with Rose. James is being a prick for no reason again.”

“James is usually a nice bloke. I never understood why he gets so wild over you and your sister, though.” He nodded at his friend’s sticky envelope. “That from your parents?”

After opening it, Albus skimmed through the letter. “Yeah, the usual. Wondering how school’s going. Let’s see…Dad learned how to make cassoulet au canard from my aunt Fleur. Huh. That’s weird. Didn’t know Aunt Fleur could cook.” 

“You tell them about the Foggy Froggies yet?” he asked, leaning his elbows on the table and enjoying it immensely as there was no one to scold him for his manners. 

“No. And not you too! They’re only called the Frog Choir because in the 1930s—”

Scorpius swatted his words away with his hand. “Alright, alright. Are you _ever_ gonna tell ‘em? What if James or any of your cousins do before you?”

He sighed. “I mean, it’s not like I’m trying to keep it from them. I just don’t know how to bring it up. ‘Mum, Dad, I want to be a professional singer when I grow up’?”

“Your parents don’t seem like they’d mind.”

“They wouldn’t!” Albus took a bite of his pancakes and found that the envelope scraped much of the syrup off. Before adding more syrup, he looked around and thought himself fortunate; at least there weren’t feathers or droppings on _his_ food. “No, knowing them, they’d be all—‘oh, Al, that sounds wonderful, much safer than Auror work’ and ‘oh, Albus, we’re so proud of you, that’s a lot safer than being a professional Quidditch player’ and a bunch of other relating to my safety.”

“So what’s the problem?”

He blinked. “Um. Well, singing is kind of… isn’t it sort of embarrassing? For me, I mean. Because I’m… you know.”

Scorpius was so enthused he barely dodged a package the size of a watermelon that nearly dropped on his head. It smashed on the ground beneath his bench and exploded, because it really _was_ a watermelon. Some Ravenclaw groaned into her hands. “You’re what? A hypogriff? Merlin, Al, you’re not _really_ concerned with looking cool, are you? You’re the lamest Slytherin I know!”

“How sweet of you to say,” he deadpanned. He sighed. “When my dad was thirteen, he was readying to fight the darkest wizard of the century. Ever since I turned thirteen, all I want to do is sing. With Flitwick’s Foggy Froggies.”

“You’re not really trying to one-up me on daddy issues, are you?” asked Scorpius, an eyebrow raised. Before Albus could interject, he continued, “Look, I think I get it. You know your parents are gonna embrace the idea of you branching out or whatever you call frogging up. And no matter how moody James is about it, he’ll eventually accept it, too, along with all your other relatives you may or may not told. 

“Choir might not be the most anticipated form of entertainment, but school’d be different without it, and, with you, it’ll probably be even better than before. So the only thing I see holding you back is yourself. You’re overthinking. There’s no one in this school that cares that much about what you choose to do. Get over it, Al.”

Staring at his half-eaten pancakes, Albus reflected, turning over his thoughts one by one. He finally said, after a long silence, “I guess I needed that.”

Scorpius rolled his eyes and slumped in his seat, exhausted. “Duh.”

“One thing, though,” Albus added idly, slicing a knife into his pancake and watching the syrup flow. “Never say ‘frogging up’ in front of me ever again.”

 

* * *

 

Hogsmeade was a freedom the third years had never yearned for until it was granted to them. Though it was still mid-fall, the start of winter’s cold already introduced itself on the grooves of tiles and uneven building rooftops as hoarfrost and icicles. A single exhale stirred a small, white cloud. Albus, Rose, and Scorpius flittered from place to place, if not only in wonder, but in rebellion of the weather.

“Have you seen any of the cousins?” Albus asked Rose, as they left the Three Broomsticks with warmed throats and full stomachs, trudging down the pavement onto the next store they felt like traipsing to.

She nodded her head. “Fred and Louis said they were heading to Zonko’s to ‘scope out the competition’, and Roxanne followed them to make sure they don’t do anything as bad as last time. Molly and Lucy are at Gladrags because Molly grew an inch over summer and Lucy doesn’t trust her to Transfigure her clothes herself. Dominique’s with friends. I’m pretty sure I just saw Hugo and Lily follow James into Spintwitches Sporting Needs. They probably got James to sneak them over here with the cloak.”

“Lily did say she wanted her own broom, but I doubt even Jim would use his allowance to get her one. She’ll have to wait ’til Christmas.”

“Jim,” repeated Scorpius, just because he thought it was funny.

“Jim,” mimed Albus, because he thought it was funny, too.

For the sake of it, Rose sighed and they watched as her breath turned visible, then dissipate into the air. After a moment of strolling in comfortable silence, Rose decided, “Let’s go to Scrivenshaft’s.”

Stepping inside Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop was like entering a new realm of parchment and paper. Not even Scorpius minded tagging along because the bookish, crisp fragrance that leaked through the entire shop managed to placate him as it did Albus and Rose. Each section was neatly organized from quills and inks to parchment and stationaries. Save for Scrivenshaft’s daughter settled at the register, no one other than the three were in the building.

Rose zoomed right to the rows of ink. “I’ve got a Potions essay due Tuesday and just ran out of ink doing the one for Herbology. I’ll be needing these.”

“Look, there’re scented inks!” Scorpius exclaimed, pointing at the bottom shelves. He read them off: “‘Wispy Wisteria’, ‘Savory Spring’, ‘Autumn Air’, ’Titan Tart’—hey, Al, that’s for you!”

Albus cursed at him which only made Scorpius laugh harder. He picked the bottle labeled “Savory Spring” and uncapped it. Immediately, his nostrils imploded with the smell of daises and cut grass. He sneezed twice, turning aghast. “Oh Merlin, does this have pollen in it?” 

“It’s strong,” said Rose, who had pinched her nose closed the moment Albus began sneezing.

Scorpius continued his rambunctious laughter until the woman at the register glared at him so fiercely he _had_ to stop, else they got kicked out.

“Well, now I know what to use in my essays if I want to give Professor Longbottom the sniffles.” Albus hit Scorpius upside the back of his head for that comment and screwed back the cap on the Sickening Spring ink bottle.

Their stay did not last as long as Rose had wanted them to; the times Scorpius and Albus fooled around with the aptly-named inks and, later, responsive notebooks (some purred and others glowed) accumulated in number, Miss Scrivenshaft’s gauge for patience did not. Luckily, Rose was able to coerce the woman into selling her her needed errands before they were kicked out to the cold, cold curb.

The shift from indoors to outdoors was noticeable, and despite their attempts at heating charms, Albus still sniffed. Perhaps he was getting sick, or this was a leftover side-effect from the pollen-doused ink. 

“Your nose is red.” Scoripus was born without ever learning tact or carefulness, so this spoken observation came as no surprise, but Albus stared at him—not because of what he said, but once his words were spoken, a faint measure of music had played and he did not know where it had come from.

His eyes followed the direction his ears advised and saw, not two stores down, Dominic Maestro’s Music Shop lit appropriately for the winter season. The display window had five to seven varying instruments, a band on its own, playing themselves silly to the most holiday-ish instrumental rendition of Lorcan d’Eath’s classic “Necks to You” Albus had ever heard.

Something from within him rose to the surface, and Albus encouraged his friends to come with him inside. For some reason the thought that there would be a music shop in Hogsmeade did not occur to him. None of his parents or older cousins ever mentioned Dominic Maestro’s, though he didn’t see why they would’ve. 

Inside, there was a plaque dated the end of the war—as many wizarding shops often do. It paraphrased Dominic’s life and death fighting for what he believed was right. The older generation did a lot of that, Albus thought, but it wasn’t as if they had a choice in the matter. Dominic and his family wanted to sell instruments, not become one in some winner-less war that only took and took.

“It’s sad,” said Rose, reading the plaque on the wall with him. Albus nodded, as he did every time she pitied a plaque in a store, or mourned over a memorial at a historical site. Scorpius never said much of anything in the presence of these reminders, not out of insensitivity, but of oversensitivity. Albus led them inner to the heart of the store for his best friend’s sake.

Like Scrivenshaft’s, Dominic Maestro’s was organized neatly according to use and purpose of object. There were areas designated for music instrument magical repair, instrument health care (apparently optional, for the self-playing-slash-self-aware-instrument-based users), and pages and pages of sheet music books.

“What's this for?” Soripus picked up a beginner’s guide to reading lyrical notes. On the front was a cartoonish witch fiddling a flute. When she caught Albus staring she winked. 

“A beginner's manual for kids.”

“I’m a kid,” said Scorpius, nodding as if it was only sensible. He leafed through the pages and frowned. “I don’t get it.”

He passed on the guide to Albus and he directed to the very first chapter.

“What’s egbuhdi-fuh?”

“Huh? You mean EGBDF?”

“That’s what I said,” said his friend testily. 

“It’s a mnemonic for the notes in treble and bass clef,” said Albus, recalling Professor Flitwick’s careful lesson. “A mnemonic is a phrase you get from the first letters of the words that help you recall them. I remember treble clef line notes best as ‘Even Godric Bathed Decisively Fresh’ and space notes as FACE. Muggles think it a little similarly, too.”

“You really like this stuff, don’t you?” That was Scorpius, trying to see what Albus saw in the magazine over his shoulder. 

Rose was standing off to the side, enraptured by a ceramic ballerina doing pirouettes dazedly inside a polished music box.  To the front of the store, he could still hear a trumpet blaring the last verses of a 60s love song. Above them, the origami birds chirped melodies from the music papers they were made from in a halo of sound. 

“I do,” replied Albus, feeling as if his heart was a cup and it was over-flowing. “I really do.”

 

* * *

 

“Are we there yet?”

“No.”

“How about now?”

“It’s literally been less than two seconds since I just said no!”

Albus focused on James’s footfalls as he led him up a winding stairwell. Far from loud, his brother’s steps were blessed with the kind of softness and agility one developed from years of self-discipline. There was no one stricter on James than himself.

James huffed. “You can’t just tell me to follow you and then not tell me where we’re going!”

“You can’t just assume we’ll be there after two seconds!” Albus was ready to turn a corner when he saw James had stopped all the way back to say something comforting to the mourning widow lady in the portrait. She was so touched by this kind-hearted boy that her portrait swung open to a flight of narrow stairs that she swore was a quicker route to their destination.

“And where would that be?” asked James.

The mourning widow answered with a shivering voice. “The music room, of course.”

James looked at Albus funnily but didn’t say anything, even as Albus stared in shock at the secret passage to the portrait then at his older brother. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

They reached the music room in record time. The soles of his feet didn’t ache as they did whenever he took those countless flights days before. Albus wondered if the other members of the choir had known about it, or if he was the one to be in the know last. His Hogwarts Express train of thought carried him to the fact that, had James not been with him, he would have never known. He was surprised at himself to note that he wasn’t jealous or angry about that at all, but grateful.

When they reached the classroom, a lone student awaited them as planned.

“Creevey,” James greeted his classmate in surprise. He turned cordial, shifting once again to the ever-loved Outside-James. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Good afternoon.”

Albus and Lily had never really met this version of their brother until they came to Hogwarts. To the public, the dutiful firstborn son of Mr. and Mrs. Potter was polite, obedient, and in running for Head Boy. Albus’s older brother, on the other hand, danced like a monkey around Mum at breakfast, hogged the bathroom mirror to practice ruffling his hair, and taught Lily dirty Quidditch tricks in the backyard. A rock could guess which James Albus liked more.

Lincoln nodded in acknowledgement and his fair hair swayed from the breeze of the open window. “Afternoon, Potter. How are you?”

“Well, thank you.” James whipped his head around to question Albus. If Creevey wasn’t there, he’d be hissing. “What’s going on, then?”

Because the stuffiness of the classroom combined with his brother’s stare was starting to get to him, Albus shrug off his robe and folded it neatly on the cleanest desk around—which still had bits of dust embedded into its wooden top that had probably been there since the first coming of the original Albus.

“It’s a private showcase,” he explained, trying so very hard not to feel self-conscious. “Usually we do a-cappella but I thought it’d be nice to solo with accompaniment. I asked Lincoln if he could play for me.” 

“Hold on—you’re going to _sing?_ ”

It seemed as if it was only now James noticed the muggle grand piano that was obviously conjured in recently, as it was free from any of the dust plaguing the rest of the room’s furniture, and he was rightly astounded. As if anyone would doubt his credentials, Creevey tacked on additionally, “I’ve been taking lessons since before Hogwarts. This one’s mine, by the way, custom made with the same sort of aspen as my wand. Very trustworthy.”

_I knew it!_ Albus thought, thinking of the Silver Spears. Tucking that clue to the depths of his mind, he addressed his brother. “Just sit down there and don’t say anything more, do you get me?”

“How can I answer your question when you say not to say anything?”

“I’m being serious, James!”

“So am I,” he inevitably replied, but settled atop Albus’s dirtying robe anyway.

Nerves wracked from Albus’s toes to his fingertips. He and Creevey had only practiced once the hour before, when an ongoing epiphany had stirred this ridiculous idea of singing for James. It made less sense than anything Albus had done so far in his third year at Hogwarts, but it felt like the natural course of action.

He didn’t warm up, though Creevey went and played a scale or two to get the hang of it. He sent one look of worry towards the piano and, inwardly, asked if it would be kind to him, just for now. He prayed the same prayer in regards to his own voice, that it would not fail him.

The movement of James crossing his arms caught Albus’s attention.

Then it began. Creevey’s fingers wove melodies into the piano keys and it danced in the air into Albus’s lungs. He tried not to stare directly into James’s hazel eyes, a duplicate pair of their mother’s, and sang to the clouds peeking behind the balcony doors.

Creevey was doing remarkably well, as expected. On the other hand, Albus was aware he delayed one note in the first half by a few seconds, and the rhythm he kept in his head was fading. He began tapping the side of his thigh as discreetly as he could and the beat went on. With practice came familiarity, and with familiarity came comfort. Every lyric he glided out and every high note he thought he hit nicely were worn with the universal language of hard work and dedication.

The song itself was in Latin. Albus did not understand Latin, did not speak it, and could not read it, but somehow he could dimly feel its meaning; water bleeding through parchment. He learned another song last week in Gaelic, French the week before, and in Cantonese his first day. The lineup next was in Italian. But his favorite one was an old English lullaby from the Founders’ days composed by Helga Hufflepuff herself. Albus couldn’t help but like the warmest songs.

Speaking of warmth, Albus was nearing the last measure of the song before he finally gathered enough courage to see how James was faring to this display, ignoring the ultimate Weasley Blush attacking his cheeks. 

His brother was watching intently. He didn’t look as if he was on the verge of laughter, nor did he seem bored, as Albus had feared. James only watched and listened like this was the first time he had seen him. He had been so scared that James would laugh.

When Albus had finished dragging out the last note, Creevey had completed his piece as well. The atmosphere was left emptied by the wind and Albus’s own soundless panting. 

It was over.

He tore his gaze away from Creevey’s proud congratulatory thumbs up and saw his brother.

“Are you _crying?_ ” exclaimed Albus, horrified.

“ _No_ , you _dolt!_ ” Rubbing his reddening eyes, James explained, “It must’ve been from passing the kitchens—they’d been cutting up onions, you know!”

Creevey chuckled at his denial. “Did you like it?”

James was blushing now, a recognizable flush that must have matched Albus’s, too. “Um, yeah. You two were spectacular.” He walked towards his brother with Albus’s cloak in hand. He said to him softly, “Good job, little brother.”

Albus smiled, relieved. “Thanks, big brother.”

“Though I have to say,” began James as they trekked down the stairs to reach the Great Hall before dinner. The sun had set, drooping tiredly as the moon took its shift, and Creevey was still nursing his grand piano in the music room. “I still want one good Quidditch match with you before I quit. Maybe Christmas with the family?”

“Hm, sure—wait, _what? Quit?_ ” Albus was so appalled, he nearly tripped down the steps. “What are you talking about?”

James scratched behind his ear. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? Guess not. I’m resigning from the team after the holidays. Gotta get focused for my O.W.L.s. Potion’s kind of kicking my butt this year, and Arithmancy isn’t as easy as Aunt Hermione makes it out to be…”

“What are you talking about?” He couldn’t help repeating himself. “But—but, your grades are fine! You study all the time! And you love Quidditch!”

He shrugged, and his blasé attitude confused Albus more. “Of course I love Quidditch. My grades are more important, though. I’m not naturally smart like you or Rosie. I have to get good O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, otherwise… I can’t be a respectable Auror.”

So this was what it was about. Albus held back a sigh, saying, “This is about Dad, isn’t it? You don’t want to ride off his reputation?”

“That’s not all,” argued his brother, walking briskly down two steps at a time so that Albus had to catch up. “Dad never took N.E.W.T.s or graduated Hogwarts. He couldn’t. But _I_ can. There’s not a dark wizard sitting around for me to slay, so this is my way of proving myself. I _have_ to, Al.

Albus realized at this moment that while he had been finding his own way of leaning out of the Potter-Weasley legacy, James was smack dab in the middle of it. There was no escape for the first son of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley. And yet while others would have collapsed under that weight, James had learned long ago to carry it—not as a burden, but a duty. An honor.

James Sirius Potter was something else.

“James,” said Albus.

“Nothing can change my mind, alright?” defended James.

“No, James, I mean—”

“ _What, Albu_ —” But it was too late.

Albus blinked at his older brother down at the foot of the last flight of stairs, fallen at what looked to be a very painful angle. “You’re not supposed to rush down steps or you might fall.”

James rubbed his back and cringed in pain. “Thanks for the tip, little brother.”

“No problem, big brother,” Albus said, and outstretched his hand.

 

* * *

 

_ Dear Mum and Dad, _

_I decided to join the Frog Choir instead of Quidditch this year. Maybe I’ll take a shot at the game later on, but I like singing. I’m not that terrible at it, either. You should hear me sometime._

_ Love, Al _

_ P.S. James has been sneaking Lily and Hugo into Hogsmeade through the Honeydukes passage. He never did that with me. Owl Neville and get Jimmy-boy in trouble, please!  _


End file.
